Punchclock Villians
by Dizzy Mushroom
Summary: 2Fort is preferable, in someways, to the other locations he could be stationed at. On the other hand, in some ways, he'd rather be anywhere else.


**Note: This has gone through several revisions, not all of them while I was completely awake. Oddly enough, I've got two different versions of this sitting on my computer, and may switch them out if I decide I like the other one better, but I think I've got this one to a place I'm happy with, though content IS subject to edit. I've actually ended up with much less free time than I had intended, mostly due to my volunteering to help a friend with her Biology. I'm still wondering when she will realize I'm not as good at it as she seems to think I am! (Dunno _where_ she got the idea that I know what I'm doing...) This is currently un-betaed and rambling and mostly pointless, so please let me know what you think could have been done better/different or what should stay.**

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Part 1  
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The late evening air is still and balmy and cloud free, the first of the night's stars beginning to speckle the evening sky with shots of silver, brilliant and unobscured despite the downpour they had suffered through the past couple of days. Spy stands in his base's small strip of courtyard, enjoying the improved weather as he puffs on a cigarette. The ground beneath his feet is still a muddy mess, both from the rain and the fighting that had occurred earlier and the thick brown muck sucking at his feet has been whipped and trampled underfoot to the point that the ground looks less like the saturated courtyard it is and more like a particularly disgusting bowl of chocolate mousse.

Spy takes a deep drag on his cigarette, savoring the burning taste and the soothing rush as the nicotine hits his system. He sighs the breath out slowly, contemplates leaning back against the wall behind him for a moment before deciding against it for the sake of his suit. He has no doubt that the walls are filthy and, worse than that, wet, and the laundry facilities the fort provides are...less than adequate. He would prefer his clothes stay as clean as he can possibly keep them considering the circumstances. It makes him infinitely glad that, for what ever strange reason, blood comes out in re-spawn.

For lack of anything better to do as he finishes up his smoke, Spy finds himself studying the the BLU base. It isn't to terribly interesting- the view never changes, and the base looks like every other BLU fort he has ever had the displeasure of staring at. Sometimes, if he thinks to hard about it, it feels a bit surreal; He's only been stationed at 2Fort for a couple of months now. Before this he had been stationed for a time at Well, and some Godforsaken farmhouse out in the middle of who knew where before that, and the overlying _sameness _of all the locals can be a little disconcerting. Every place he has ever been, even on visits, have had the same basic RED base-BLU base set up, with the standard buffer of no-man's-land crammed in between, and after a while it all sort of runs together like a child's attempt at watercolor paint, or pictures constantly overlapping and then melting into one big blob. He usually figures it's better to just not think about it, but every once in a while a stray comment from a fellow teammate about how one base may or may not stand up in comparison with another base gives him pause, makes him wonder how you can compare places that are, essentially, the _same_ place. He'd broached the question once, in passing, to a fellow Spy.

"Il est plus facile d'appeler un château une maison que pour appeler un chat un chat. Don't worry about it." He had said. Spy supposes he's got a point. It still bothers him.

Now he wonders, as he absently takes in the hard concrete lines and angles of the opposing base, if the industrialized building methods are really any sturdier than RED's more rustic take on architecture. Does it keep BLU warmer? Does it keep them drier? It's a little hard to make out the details of the opposing fort from where he stands, but the moon is full and the stars are bright, and he smiles around the filter between his lips when, up on the second floor battlements, he catches sight of the vague shape of BLU's Sniper, in his usual spot on the catwalk by the window, half hidden in the shadows.

This, oddly enough, is something of a routine; It had taken Spy by surprise his first week at 2Fort, when he'd stepped outside to smoke and spotted the Sniper standing half-sheltered and, if the man so chose, in the perfect position to get off a clean shot across the way. He'd smoked out back for a while after that, to the amusement of his teammates, who repeatedly reassured him that the Sniper stood there every night, in semi-plain view, and never once had started a fight. Their Scout at the time had even demonstrated the Sniper's apparent docility by parading up and down in front of RED base one night, waving his arms and shouting silly insults across the moat. The Sniper hadn't reacted at all, hadn't even acknowledged they were there, although the BLU Soldier had started yelling obscenities back by the time they had managed to haul the teenager back inside. Spy, unconvinced, would have gladly continued to smoke out back despite this if their own Sniper hadn't set up his camper there. The man had finally physically hauled him out front and told him that under no circumstance was he going to put up with the reek of cigarette smoke lingering around his 'home.' By now he is used enough to the BLU Sniper's nightly habit that it no longer sets his nerves on edge to be sharing sky with the man. He isn't completely comfortable with it, mind, but the jittery paranoia has left him and lately he hasn't even been bothering to cloak himself. _Complacency is death_ he reminds himself sometimes, but he isn't dead yet. He's not sure if that counts for anything or not.

The Sniper has a coffee mug in hand and his rifle is nowhere in sight - although, Spy is certain it is not far out of the man's reach. Perhaps it is leaning on the wall just below the window? That would certainly put it out of his sight. Or maybe he has it closer to hand. By his leg, perhaps? Slung over his back? He has seen Snipers occasionally attach leather straps to their rifles to make them easier to carry around. He wishes he could see better, but he knows that even if it wasn't dark, the BLU base is _just_ far enough away that he probably wouldn't be able to tell anyway, unless the gun was in use. Wondering where the rifle is hidden is entertaining enough, but he's never had the urge to disrupt the quiet bit of peace they have in order to find out one way or the other.

He takes a deep breath, sucking the cigarette down to its filter, and holds the smoke for as long as he can, keeping his eyes forward, watching the Sniper watch nothing and wonders if he's just enjoying the temporary peace too. It seems like it. Despite the constant, eerie feeling of sameness about the base, and even, just as much if not more so, his teammates themselves, Spy has found that regulations regarding the standard cease-fire agreements vary considerably from base to base. He, himself, has learned the hard way that the ending buzzer does not necessarily mean he could de-cloak, even on his own side, and walk around freely. It just meant that if he happened to get picked out for afternoon target practice- should he somehow be stupid enough to accidentally wander within BLU shooting distance- that his team would probably end up needing a new spy. 2Fort, with its lax after-hours regulations and quiet nights, was something of a God-send, if you believed in such idealistic things. His entire time stationed there so far had not seen a single unauthorized skirmish, outside of the occasional yelling matches. He can smoke outside without worrying about his contract being abruptly terminated. In some weird, distant way, it's almost _companionable_, which is...not unpleasant, really, but probably a dangerous feeling to indulge. No, not _probably_, it _is_ a dangerous feeling to indulge. It makes him wonder sometimes, like now, when he's standing here tired, achy, smoking, alone and feeling relatively safe, if the aversion they are driven to feel towards each other- the REDs and the BLUs, that is- is really worth the paycheck.

Then his lungs start to burn and he exhales, shrugging the thoughts off as he drops the spent butt to the ground, watching the dim cherry of light fizzle out with a damp hiss. It doesn't really matter if it is, in the long run: he knows this. They were hired to do a job, to kill each other, to be killed, to come back and to do it all over again and again, (Except maybe during off hours. Maybe. Depending on location.) and the technicalities don't really matter so long as the other side doesn't take control of their base or their intell. So long as they _win_ at the end of the day, or keep their opponents locked in a stalemate. And it is so much _easier_ to repeatedly murder people with whom you have a standing animosity, baseless or not, as opposed to people to whom you would gladly give the time of day. It's a sad fact, but no less true. And he will continue to hold on to that dislike, as much as he can, because it is what he is paid to do, no matter how stupid it seems, because if he starts thinking of the BLU Sniper as a fellow man, shares a bit of that peace with him, then maybe one day he will decide that he _doesn't_ want to kill him anymore. Maybe one day he'll think '_I'll get him later_' and that thought costs them the battle, and a good portion of their paycheck.

When he looks back up, he is surprised to find the BLU Sniper watching him through the lingering haze of smoke. He shouldn't _be_ surprised, really, he had figured the man knew he was there- he knows form experience that the man has sharp eyes and Spy hasn't been going to any particular trouble to hide himself for the past couple of weeks. But he supposes he just wasn't expecting to be acknowledged. He never has been before. The sudden change in routine makes him...somewhat uncomfortable.

Grimacing to himself, he turns carefully on his heel, mindful of the slick mud underfoot and of the fact that he's going to have to clean the shoes he is wearing before he goes to bed. He thinks he can feel the man still watching him, and it puts his back up, a little. Still, before he slips back inside he pauses and half-turns, just inside the entry, and lifts his hand in a half-wave._ No hard feelings_ he thinks _for the knife I'm going to put in your back tomorrow_.

He's not sure - it's to dark and to far to be certain- but he thinks he sees the BLU Sniper wave back.


End file.
